


His Doctor

by John_Faina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:11:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Faina/pseuds/John_Faina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is helpless one morning when he loses his senses entirely. He's fortunate to have a live-in doctor who knows exactly what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Doctor

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little glimpse into what it could be like for a sick Sherlock in a committed relationship with his doctor. May have taken minor liberties with the characters. Thank you for reading!

Sherlock had been awake approximately four seconds when he realised that the world was ending.

He lay there for a few seconds more on his side, eyes shifting, raking blearily over John next to him, trying to pinpoint the source, but nothing came to him. There was only a distinct sense that the world as he knew it was over. It was dull. Duller than usual. Muffled. 

And then it struck him.

All of his senses: they'd been compromised. Ears stuffed, nose blocked. Eyes bleary and itching. The inside of his mouth tasted unusual, as though someone had got in there and swabbed it with cotton. 

He groaned, and pressed his face into his pillow, scrunching his features, and shook his head a bit for good measure. What good would groaning do about it? No good, no good at all. His head gave a throb, his head - actually was throbbing; it wasn't going away. He pulled the covers tighter about himself.  
It was rather cold in his room this morning. 

"John," he groaned, his voice half-stifled and croaking. He winced and rolled towards him until he was pressed along his back, and tried to relieve the pressure in his head by burying it in between John's shoulder blades. 

From above his head, John gave a grumpy, unintelligible mumble, as he shifted back against him. His feet pressed into Sherlock's shins and Sherlock shivered, jerking them away. John searched for them, sweeping his legs along the sheets - so Sherlock draped one thigh over them and pinned them down firmly. John hummed at that. It turned into a yawn.

"John."

"Hm?"

Uttering unintelligible sleep noises, John turned over onto his other side to face him, eyes half closed. Sherlock shuffled into the warm extra space this provided, anticipating the arm that then encircled him. 

"I don't feel like myself," he rasped against the pain in his throat. 

John's fingers dragged at the curls at his nape; he snuffled sleepily. Sherlock miserably pressed his forehead into the column of his throat, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Help me."

"You sound sick, baby."

The words were murmured, almost breathed over his head, but they gave Sherlock pause. 

"I - I don't get sick."

"Yes, you do."

"I haven't been sick since I was a kid."

"Well, don't worry."

"About what?"

Yawning again, John extracted himself from Sherlock and sat up. Sherlock slumped, bemoaning the loss of the wonderful, relieving pressure of his embrace; he rolled over onto his back. John stretched his arms above his head, rolling his neck, waiting until things popped before he turned back to Sherlock.

"About a bloody thing," he elaborated, leaning over to push the curls back from his forehead, pushing his fingertips through his hair. Sherlock just looked at him. John kissed the crease above his nose and he smiled weakly in spite of himself. "I'm your doctor."

Sherlock sighed.

"All right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Right." John got out of bed and talked aloud to himself as he padded towards the door. "I'm gonna get you something to drink. A thermometer, we need a thermometer. Cool cloth, maybe, and something to bring your fever down..."

Mumbling, Sherlock tossed an arm over his face. His head gave a throb. 

Really, John took years to come back. He was left alone with his pain and suffering: his fuzzy, jumbled thoughts and clogged sinus cavern. He sniffed. 

"Eurgh," he exhaled, his arm falling back to the mattress with a dead flop.

"D'you know you sound like a bull frog?"

"Oh, shut up." 

Laughing, John reentered the room and placed a rattling bottle on the night table, along with a glass of water, and a cup of tea. In his hands he held a damp cloth and a long white stick, which Sherlock eyed with severe distaste. 

"Are you really going to shove that in my body?"

Pushing his curls back again, John draped the cloth over his forehead. Sherlock was caught in between shivering at the temperature, and sighing with relief.

"Count yourself lucky," John told him, pulling the clear tip off the thermometer. "They make them so they go in your mouth now."

"I may have studied chemistry at university, but I did acquire a basic knowledge of human biology and anatomy, an - "

The rest of his words were cut off as John shoved the thermometer under his tongue - which, in hindsight, he should have seen coming. He blinked, and then promptly glared. John just sat down on the edge of the bed and checked his watch. 

"Don' these things beep?" Sherlock asked through his teeth.

"Hush."

They sat in silence, while John kept his eyes glued to his wrist, and stroked his hair with the other hand. Sure enough, moments later, the stick in his mouth beeped twice; John swiped it before Sherlock could do so and squinted at it. He tsked.

"What?"

"Thought so. Bit higher than normal, but not critical."

"What is it?"

John set the thermometer on the night table. "Here, sit up for me."

With a groan, Sherlock pushed himself up into a sitting position; the cloth fell to his lap and he swayed as his head throbbed again. John reached for the pill bottle, one hand on his shoulder to keep him propped. Sherlock swallowed two of them. This simple act of following a well-informed directive seemed to overjoy John, who then shuffled forward and began to press soft kisses to his temple. Sherlock, for his part, dropped his heavy head onto his shoulder, emitting a small noise of complaint at his plight.

"I know," placated John in his ear, arms going around him without hesitation. "I know."

"You don't get sick."

"I'm healthy."

"I'm healthy!"

"No, you're fortunate."

"I'm sick."

"You're human."

"Oh, God, that again."

John kissed his neck, rubbing a hand up and down his back. 

"My poor, sick baby."

Sherlock curled around him, smothering his pleased smile in John's collar. He sniffed.

"For God's sake, John."

John continued to kiss his neck, murmuring words of endearment into his skin. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered shut as he absorbed every bit of the attention. He sniffed. After mere moments of this, though, John extracted himself and made him sit upright. 

Sherlock gave one great sniff of displeasure, reaching for him, but John placed two hands on his chest to prevent it. Sherlock gave him his best pleading expression: eyes wide, slightly watering now because the very air seemed to be stinging them - it was only bound to work to his advantage. 

"You need to let your sinuses drain," John told him, his voice soft and warm. "You can hardly breathe."

Sherlock only widened his eyes further.

"You are such a drama queen. You don't fool me."

"I'm sick, John." 

"Mm-hm. Your nose is all red."

Sherlock's hand flew to his nose, eyes wide, still. John laughed, shaking his head.

"My God, you are thirty-six."

"Am I?"

"What, you lost count?"

"Mm." Sherlock shrugged. "Every now and again, I have to confirm with Mycroft."

"Right, OK."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What's my age got to do with my red nose?"

"Oh - well, just that a man your age should never be as cute as you are."

Oh, perfect. Sherlock swayed towards him, plastering on his most genuine smile, which, of course, wouldn't fool John, but even if it didn't fool him - didn't mean it wouldn't affect him. Sure enough, John rolled his eyes the moment he reacted.

"Cute?"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffed. John's face melted into an expression of deep affection - but a second later, he'd hitched his blank, unamused cover up again. Sherlock fiddled with the blankets over his lap, looking down at them. He sniffed again. Not calculated that time. Just fortunate timing.

"Sherlock, you're not actually all that cute, so."

Sherlock twiddled his thumbs together. 

"You can give it up."

Sherlock lowered his head more, the crease above his nose growing prominent. He sniffed. Really, John was right about his sinuses. Just as he thought it, he felt John's hand under his chin, lifting it. 

"Come on, you sound pitiful."

He looked at John sadly. He sniffed. John pressed a chaste kiss to his lips.

"I love you. But you're ridiculous."

Sherlock's lips twitched. John kissed him again. 

"And I hate you sometimes."

Sherlock immediately frowned, cocking his head. He reached for John again, and, this time, he got him. He reeled him in. 

"You don't hate me."

"Why are you so irresistible even when you're sick?" asked John, as he pushed Sherlock back into the pillows. Sherlock rolled them so that John was lying on his back, and promptly sprawled on top of him with a sigh. John sank his fingers into his hair.

"You find me irresistible no matter what state I'm in." He inhaled the words, mouth pressed into John's collar.

"Well."

"Mm..."

Softly, John laughed. His fingertips traced patterns on Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock hummed more, his body relaxing into a boneless heap. 

"Go back to sleep, OK?"

"Yes."

"I'll make you some soup when you wake up."

"Excellent."

"You're going to feel better in no time, I promise," John murmured quietly, kissing his forehead and smoothing the hair away from it.

Sherlock burrowed into him further, the top of his head gently butting up against John's chin. 

"I know," he yawned around his smile. He closed his eyes. "You are my doctor."


End file.
